The Fictional Diaries
by Amara2
Summary: Just when you've found a balance of sorts, you find out that, strictly speaking, YOU DON'T EXIST. [chapters 10 and 11 now uploaded]
1. Finding out that you're not real...

THE FICTIONAL DIARIES or MY LIFE IN LA-LA LAND

Life has these moments when you've got to hit "pause" for some introspection. My mom says not to take them too seriously, because you could end up being a nervous, nail-biting wreck wondering whether anything you've done has been Valuable to Society and Toward your Self-Growth. Like last week, when my best friend Lilly Moscowitz wrote a thirteen-page essay for Mrs. Spears about the way her life would have unfolded if she'd chosen to play the violin, or something, instead of playing the trumpet in band (something, by the way, that she gave up in seventh grade). She said it really made her think about Decisions.

But it's not like anything I've ever scrutinized myself for was MY fault. Did I CHOOSE to be born with size-ten feet and no discernible mammary glands? Is my yield-sign hair some sort of PUNISHMENT by God for spilling red finger paint all over Grandmere when I was four? Was it my DEEPEST desire all along to become the sole heir to the throne of a tiny European principality? I have nothing to chastise myself for except for the fact that the world does not seem to like me.

And my unrealized self-actualization. And my tendency towards throwing up whenever I have to speak to a large group of people, especially when I know them. And my inability to stand up for myself when cheerleaders like Lana Whine-Berger shove their pompoms in my face and laugh at me for wearing a bra when I so obviously do not need one. Do they care that I will someday inherit a European _country_? Noooo.

See, most people hope for a CAR when they turn sixteen, not a COUNTRY.

Oh, but I quote directly from the MOVIE. Yes, dear readers, a MOVIE. Starring a cheap imitation of myself, a much more confident and self-actualized and beautiful Mia Thermopolis than I will ever make. A MOVIE. WITH ME. AND LILLY. AND GRANDMERE. AND…AND…AND _MICHAEL._

God. Why me?

Oh, but that's not the LEAST of it. Not at _all._ You wonder, how does anyone know about Lilly and Grandmere and MICHAEL? Well, guess what?

I don't live in Brooklyn. I live in Dream-Land.

I'M A FICTIONAL CHARACTER!!!!!!!!!!!!


	2. Still speechless. Write back later.

THE FICTIONAL DIARIES or MY LIFE IN LA-LA LAND

Still speechless. Write back later.


	3. Don't answer that.

THE FICTIONAL DIARIES or MY LIFE IN LA-LA LAND

If Meg Cabot wanted to write a book so badly, why did she create a freak like me?

Don't answer that.


	4. All for some reader I don't even know...

THE FICTIONAL DIARIES or MY LIFE IN LA-LA LAND

So now I know why bad luck seems to follow me around. Why I am the sole heir to a European throne, when I could be an average teenage junkie listening to hip hop at the back of the classroom. Why my mother is pregnant with my Algebra teacher's child instead of living a calm, quiet life with me in our renovated firehouse (well, as quiet as it could get with a fifteen-year-old freak and an eclectic painter). Why I have to pine after the guy of my dreams every waking minute and say embarrassing things every day and spill my guts in a diary the likes of which most teenagers wouldn't bother to record details in. SO YOU, SOME READER I DON'T EVEN KNOW, CAN BE PRIVY TO THE INNERMOST DETAILS OF MY LIFE.

What, do you enjoy seeing me make a complete idiot of myself on every other page?


	5. Are you listening out there? This is the...

THE FICTIONAL DIARIES or MY LIFE IN LA-LA LAND

Well, since all I ever do here in La-La Land is float around and wait for devastating things to happen to me, I'm going to keep a journal of my own. One that Miss Control-Freak Cabot can't manipulate for royalties.

Are you listening out there? This is the real Mia Thermopolis.

Talked to mom this morning about it—she seemed perfectly happy. Didn't know a thing was going on. My theory is that while she—the author—is writing a book, the rest of us kind of freeze up and hibernate. Except for me, of course. I get to sit around, ingest dust and pollutants, and watch everybody grin stupidly.

I'm going to go outline plans to protest against the new bill passed in Congress—the one that increased the rights of Californian loggers—and figure out how to raise money for Greenpeace in my downtime. Lilly would have wanted me to.

You know, life moved more smoothly before I figured out that I wasn't real.


	6. Now I have a headache...

THE FICTIONAL DIARIES or MY LIFE IN LA-LA LAND

Had a double-chocolate smoothie with Rocky Road ice cream and a swirly straw. Nobody will ever know. They're busy ignoring me and pruning the flowers. Michael's been playing his keyboard for the past two days. Lilly has been writing at her desk. They both go to bed and eat normally, if not paying any attention to what they're doing. My mom's painting right now.

It takes some time getting used to being the only rational human being within walking distance. Hey, I wonder if Bugs Bunny or Harry Potter or something will show up. They are fictional characters, after all. Just like me.

That sounds like the sort of thing Michael would say.

Now I have a headache.


	7. Sole survivor of a nuclear war...

THE FICTIONAL DIARIES or MY LIFE IN LA-LA LAND

Pinch yourself, Mia. Remind yourself that there has NOT been a nuclear war and you are NOT the last person on earth.

Could have fooled me.


	8. The sadistic side of Meg Cabot...

THE FICTIONAL DIARIES or MY LIFE IN LA-LA LAND

Everyone still comes to Albert Einstein High School. Lana and her friends are semi-frozen in cheerleading routines. The teachers still write assignments on the board and lecture as if somebody is actually listening to them. Sometimes I sit in an empty desk and take a couple of notes, since I actually have time to do my homework. And of course my attention is unwavering in Algebra class.

HA. As if I understand a single word Mr. Gianini says. Why couldn't Meg Cabot have given me the ability to divide fractions in my head?

She must enjoy making me suffer.


	9. She sounds more like me than I do. . .

THE FICTIONAL DIARIES

I've been reading the two books she (Meg Cabot) has written so far in The Princess Diaries, and do you know what? They sound exactly like me. 

UGH. I HATE this.

Yesterday I found a spiral-bound notebook inside my pillow case in my room. It was a journal. My journal. The journal that I never really bothered to write in. Guess what I found written in it? Both volumes of the Princess Diaries.

Huh. Guess I didn't need to go to the bookstore to get that.

Maybe I should tell you exactly how I found out that…well…that everything I grew up with hasn't been _real._ (When you put it that way, it sounds pretty hopeless.) Because after I found out was when everything kind of froze. 

A/N: THIS IS WHERE I LOSE MY PATIENCE FOR THIS PLOT BUNNY AND LEAVE TO WANDER AROUND. REVIEWERS---HELP ME!

OH, HECK. I"LL WRIITE SOME MORE.

(Much, Much Later).

My God.

Do you know people online write STORIES about me?

Mostly Me/Michael stories too.

Well. Nice to know I've got your support, folks. Now for Michael to realize that we were "made for each other." (Do you really think?…)

This is SO embarrassing.


	10. Tick. Tock.

The Fictional Diaries or My Life in La-La Land

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

Where'd time go? Does it even exist anymore?

Tick.

Tock.

Can't the day end already? Does Mr. Gianini have to drone for the rest of _eternity?_

I shouldn't talk about my stepfather like that.

Tick.

GOD!

  
Tock.

Nobody around to talk to. No Lilly to call. No Boris to snub. No Michael to dream about—well, I can still dream about him, but he hasn't done much for the past few (days? weeks? months? how long has it _been_?). I even miss talking to Kenny.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

I think I'm going to go write another novel for Meg Cabot.


	11. Later, Later, and Still Later

The Fictional Diaries or My Life in La-La Land

Later 

Maybe I should explain everything. You know, for you MILLIONS OF READERS OUT THERE JUST DYING TO HEAR MORE SECRETS FROM THAT FREAK MIA THERMOPOLIS BECAUSE WE JUST **ALL** WISH WE COULD LIVE **HER** LIFE, DON'T WE?  I'm kind of flattered that millions of people actually care whether or not new tragedies unfold each day of my existence, but really, haven't you learned to expect it now? I'm a fictional character. My life is supposed to suck.

NO, no it's NOT. I'm supposed to be the brave, risky one who solves murder mysteries and makes wild, passionate love to a different guy every day, or at least the confident, self-assured cheerleader whose worst moment is finding out her airhead boyfriend is cheating on her (easy—dump him and find a cuter guy). I'm not _supposed_ to have _braces_ and big _hair_ and _monster_ feet and _glasses_ whose friends are more kick-ass than _she_ is and who _pines_ for the guy of her _dreams_—a member of the _computer_ club—every day of her _life_! The gutsiest thing I've ever done is throwing an eggplant out the sixteenth-story window of my best friends apartment! 

Of all the moments I've wanted to cry in my life, this is without a doubt the worst. 

So what happens now? 

Do I just...stay sixteen forever? Go through trauma after trauma (you readers creep me out if you enjoy watching Grandmere bully me) as if each time I can just spring back without a scratch? Watch Michael find some smart, pretty girl and spend the rest of his house in a house with a white picket fence, 2.5 kids, a dog named Spot, and his name on the plate of some CEO's office? Or go on wishing that he didn't see me as his little sister's best friend for the rest of my life? How long will that last, anyway? Until Meg Cabot decides she's BORED and throws the Princess Diaries in the TRASH? No longer do I have control over my life. I can't decide how I grow up and who if I marry and when I die and—and—GOD.

Well, I guess I have control over my life now. As much control as I can have surrounded by a bunch of listless people fictional characters I USED to know. Safe until Meg Cabot writes her third book, and then we'll see how things turn out.

Later 

Oh. Yeah. Right. I was supposed to explain everything to you. You know, I didn't have to EXPLAIN anything to my diary before, because nobody ever READ IT before. But I suppose it's my duty as a BEST-SELLING BOOK to fill you up on previous events.

Went to the bookstore.

Picked a book off the shelves.

Surprise surprise. It's my diary.

Now I know I'm a fictional character.

The world freezes in mid-breath around me.

Alone.

Period.

That's the story, I guess.

I've told you (you? weird.) about my theory, right? That my guess was that while Meg Cabot writes a book, her fictional world sort of freezes up. But now that I've discovered the truth (or is it? what IS the truth now, anyway?) the order has been thrown off and I'm awake. Awake in La-La Land with nobody to talk to, nothing to do. Except write. Surf the Internet. Campaign for Greenpeace. Get fat.

Just because there's nobody around to be embarrassed in front of doesn't mean I'm going to forego my strict eating habits.

I resolve not to have a single ham sandwich during my exile from daily life in Greenwich Village (a/n: that was for you, Me.) Who would want to, anyway? Ham=Pig=Slaughtered Animal.

I understand *some* math, Mr. Gianini.

Still Later 

Still here. Still bored. Surfing fanfiction. Still very embarassing. Waiting for Anne of Green Gables to come skipping through or something. Yeah. I figure it might happen. Why not?

(A/N: Yes, Me, that last part took quite a bit of effort. My finger aches just typing it out. And, Rachael, if you're out there—do you think that there's dead pine in Heaven?...*dreamy faraway gaze on face*...Hey...don't you usually ask me that?...*shrugs*...*leaves to ponder Mia Thermopolis' terrible fate some more*...*I'm just as bad as Meg Cabot, aren't I?*...

Also, I realize that these first few chapters have been pretty tame. Just stuff that's mostly been mentioned in the book, skirted around a bit to stick to the main topic. I'm just afraid of writing something different b/c I don't know how well I can do it. I want to make this a story—a real STORY—but I'm not sure how to do it. I'm thinking that having an actual (er, you know what I mean) fictional character come in—someone to talk to Mia, or to vie for her love, or to make fun of her, or just to fill her up on how things are being a Nonexistent person—might be good for the story. Or maybe Mia meets Meg Cabot, talks to her, rants, raves, etc, and discovers she's not so bad after all (or, horror or horrors, she's what Mia grows up to be—what ever happened to the righteous, free-speaking environmental radical she was determined to be?). Or maybe she just sits a while and reflects over her life, her relationship with Michael, the web she's caught up in with Kenny Showalter, the Biology Kid-and-that's-all-he'll-ever-be-to-her, her unrealized self-actualization, and her new stepdad. Or maybe she can just graffiti the school and wait until the third book swings into full operation in her life and whistle innocently while Principal Gupta puzzles over who could have vandalized the school without a trace. 

Yeah. That would make for a profound story, if you ask me.

A VERY profound story.

-Amara, the Author of Fickleness.

(P.S.—I had so much trouble with my computer's spell check and this story. It has so many no-goes in it that practically every other word is—my earnest computer informs me—a run-on sentence or a fragment or an impossible spelling or a non-English word (well, I didn't get too many of those).)


End file.
